


These Masks We Wear

by Enfilade



Series: Chains of Grindcore [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Abuse of Authority, Blood, Coercion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissociation, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Manipulation, Master/Pet, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse, Prison, Sex Toys, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Victim Blaming, Warden/Prisoner, death camp imagery, not nice, secondary Tarn/Megatron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2019-10-15 19:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17534444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: A growing and twisted affection forces Skids and the Commandant to take hard looks at who they really are underneath the masks they wear.  As Skids embraces his role as the Commandant's adjutant, Damus of Tarn struggles to master his feelings by subjecting Skids to a unique vocal experiment.  Sequel to "These Shackles You Forged."





	1. Disinfectant

**Author's Note:**

> As with the prequel, “These Shackles You Forged,” this story is a study in psychological horror, manipulation and coercion.
> 
> (Eat dead dove if you want to, by all means, but don't be surprised that it's....dead dove.)
> 
> This story is set in Grindcore and contains death camp imagery, references to torture, and references to experimentation on sapient beings over and above the prison stuff, the psychological stuff, and the sexual stuff.
> 
> Detailed discussion of consent issues below for those of you who need more detail before deciding if you want to read this story.
> 
> Megatron is physically abusive and emotionally manipulative towards Tarn.
> 
> Skids honestly believes and is made to think that he’s choosing to engage in various acts of his own volition, but the surrounding events have been deliberately set up in such a way that informed consent is impossible. The power dynamic between warden and prisoner is plenty questionable enough, and that’s before Tarn started manipulating Skids’s environment with the intent to cause specific emotional reactions and mislead Skids as to the true nature of what’s happening to him and around him. There is nothing that either of them can "feel" to make these circumstances "okay."
> 
> This is a story about the aftermath of intense manipulation. If you are looking for fics about love, romance, healthy relationships, or anything that is desirable in real life, this story is not what you’re looking for.

Chapter One 

The strong scent of disinfectant jarred the Commandant of Grindcore from a deep and unquiet sleep. It smelled like medbay and spilled energon and death. 

Grindcore was full of unpleasant smells and discordant noises. The Commandant had made his private quarters a haven from the worst of the prison’s visual horrors, but no amount of soundproofing could keep all the screams out, nor had he managed to eliminate every olfactory reminder of the work he did within Grindcore’s walls. The disinfectant was particularly strong today, as though someone had needed to clean up a mess on the Commandant’s very doorstep. He frowned, and the left side of his face exploded in fire and agony. 

The Commandant’s optics flashed online. He tried to sit up, but his depleted adrenals had nothing to give him. His body barely twitched, but his optics came into focus, treating him to the sight of a pale green ceiling, a forest of overhead bars, and a tangle of tubes and wires hanging down. They plugged into his medical access ports, into his chest, into his head… 

It smelled like a medbay because he was _in_ a medbay. 

He rolled onto his right side. His body could manage that, at least. Pain slithered through his systems, low, throbbing. He looked for a reflective surface, but every piece of metal in this room was smothered with that same awful white-green paint. 

Maybe he didn’t want to know what he looked like. 

He could see enough looking down. His battered chestplate. His mangled left leg. Deep gouges from claws and teeth all over his frame. The charred hole that a sword had left in his lower torso. He’d gone fist to fist with Grimlock and he’d had the worst of it. 

Shame burned deeper than the pain. He was a trained warrior, a disciplined soldier. Grimlock was a _beast_. He should have had no difficulty defeating a stupid animal, no matter how strong or how vicious the animal might be. 

Surely Grindcore hadn’t made him _soft_. 

Surely…but all his trials here were of the mental sort. What had he been doing, physically, since taking command? He’d not been on the range, practicing with his guns or his cannon. He’d not been sparring with the Predators to keep his hand to hand combat skills sharp. He’d been sitting around in his office with its overstuffed couch and comfortable chair, recharging in a soft berth every night, and his martial capabilities had lapsed. 

He’d brought this on himself. 

The Commandant checked his chronometer, only to discover that it was offline. Of course there was no chronometer in this damned medbay. This medbay was just as much part of the prison as anywhere else in Grindcore. Its patients were not owed any comforts. Neither were its doctors. The medstaff consisted of Glit and Sauder: a traitor and a sociopath. The Commandant wondered which had been treating him. He didn’t want the traitor’s filthy paws on his frame, but he was afraid to imagine what Sauder might have done to him while he’d been offline. 

He was afraid to imagine anything that might have happened while he’d been offline. Grimlock had not come alone. The Autobots had sent an attack force far in excess of anything that the Commandant had foreseen, even with Skids’s warning that the Autobots had been probing the prison’s defenses. The Dynobots and the Wreckers, together, working in tandem. That kind of force belonged on a battlefield, not here at Grindcore. Not this far behind the Decepticon front line. Not at a prison. 

But Grindcore was far more than just a prison. 

Who had the Autobots wanted back? 

Well, there was really only one answer to that. 

_Skids is gone_ . 

His adjutant. His pet. His _very personal engineer_. 

Of course the Autobots had wanted Skids back. The Commandant did not know if they expected Skids to be an intelligence asset—to tell them everything he knew about Grindcore, which was a considerable amount—or if Prowl just wanted Skids eliminated so the Decepticons could no longer make use of his superlearner’s abilities. 

Worry roiled in the Commandant’s tanks. 

Even if Prowl pushed for option 2, the Commandant was convinced Skids could barter for option 1. His continued survival in exchange for information. What information, though, the Commandant did not know. Skids was clever. Skids could feed the Autobots data that they would already have from other sources. Skids could keep Grindcore’s secrets. But would he? Would he be loyal, or would he betray the Commandant to save his own life? 

The Commandant felt his throat close. 

_Would he tell your secrets because he’s just so glad to be home again_ ? 

When had the Commandant forgotten that Skids was an Autobot? That Skids would _want_ to help his own faction, his own Cause? 

The word _betray_ was unwarranted. Skids had never been a Decepticon to begin with. It was his own people who had smashed their way into Grindcore. And Skids, no doubt, had left with them. 

_Have you honestly forgotten what you did to him to make him your adjutant in the first place?_

Yes. Somewhere along the line, the Commandant had spun a fantasy so convincing that he had been able to permit _himself_ to be deceived. 

_Skids desires to serve me. Wants nothing more than to be mine in every way._

Grimlock had been a wake-up call for both of them. Now, the Commandant’s first duty was to find out just how severe the damage to Grindcore had been, and then begin making repairs. Sooner or later he was going to have to justify himself to Megatron. To explain how the Autobots had been able to penetrate Grindcore’s defenses. 

He’d taken every reasonable precaution. 

But Megatron wouldn’t care. Megatron only valued results. 

_And you haven’t really taken every reasonable precaution, have you? You let yourself get soft._

_You’re still soft._

_You have work to do, and what are you doing? Lying here in a berth, mourning your little pet, Skids._

In a minute he’d get up and do his duty. 

In a minute. 

His world felt dark and cold and empty without his engineer running hot at his side. 

And then, an echoing voice from out in the corridor illuminated everything. 

“…don’t care what Darkmount says. We have a gaping hole in our perimeter security and we need the 5th Engineering Corps to fix it. They aren’t going anywhere until the job is done. I’m not sure why Darkmount is raising this fuss. Doesn’t the Commandant outrank him?” 

“Yes,” another voice replied. It sounded like Skyquake, Grindcore’s Chief of Security. “But he’s saying he wants to hear it from the Commandant himself.” 

“You tell him the Commandant is occupied. He doesn’t have time to waste rubber-stamping orders for Darkmount. We have some _very_ high value prisoners now and if we want to come out of this mess with our heads intact, we need to get some intel out of them and send it up the line to Soundwave, _before_ Megatron drops the hammer on _us_ for letting the Wreckers and Dynobots in here in the first place. Darkmount is not our priority right now, and if he can’t pull his weight for the Cause and loan us his engineers, then the Commandant can arrange him a cell of his very own under the charge of hoarding war-critical resources.” 

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to get the Commandant to authorize…” 

“He’s _busy_.” The voice brooked no argument from Skyquake. “And so are _you_. What have we got from the new prisoners?” 

“Not much,” Skyquake admitted. 

“Soundwave. Megatron. _Heads_. Our heads, Skyquake. We are on borrowed time already.” 

“I don’t know what you expect me to do,” Skyquake snapped. “He’s a Wrecker. Breaking him will take time.” 

“You’re…” The voice sounded incredulous. “ _No_ , you fool. _He’s_ not who you want to break. You take the two new guys who came in with him. Let _them_ see what you’re doing to him. If that doesn’t scare ‘em, you give it to one of _them_. They might not crack to save themselves. But they’ll damned well crack for their friends.” 

“You think?” Skyquake sounded skeptical. 

“Those two aren’t Wreckers yet. They’re still ordinary Autobots. That’s how Autobots think.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Skyquake paused. “What about _you_?” 

“The Commandant and I are going to work on explaining this to Megatron. Dismissed.” 

Footfalls. Possibly Skyquake, walking away. 

“When Glit gets back, I want to talk to him.” 

“Sir.” A new voice. There was someone stationed outside the door. “What about Sauder? He was here, asking…” 

“Sauder doesn’t get in this room.” 

“Sir.” 

The door opened. 

The Commandant tried again to sit up, and this time he was successful. He must look a wreck. Still, he tried his best to project his aura of power and terror and absolute command. 

A figure stepped through the doorway. His attention was on the datapad in his hand. He moved with precision and authority, despite the fact that his Decepticon insignia wasn’t a badge on his chest, but rather, a charm that swung from the collar around his neck. 

He glanced over at the Commandant with his lips pressed firmly together. It was the expression of a mech who had subordinated his personal feelings to professional necessity. His gaze was steady and cold. 

Until he saw the Commandant sitting up, looking back at him. 

His jaw dropped and his mouth fell open. His expression became pleading. 

The Commandant could barely believe his optics. 

“Skids,” the Commandant whispered. 


	2. Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this fic will earn its NSFW rating, a few more chapters in. The theme for this one is "the new normal," aka "we've embarked on this twisted little relationship; now what?" And of course the Commandant's automatic response to a little self-doubt is to see how far down the rabbit hole Skids is willing to go with him.

Chapter Two: Attack 

Skids would never forget the fear he’d felt when he’d realized that Grindcore was under attack. 

The Dynobots had blasted a hole in the main wall. Skids had seen it on the monitors in the Commandant’s office. He’d guessed that the Autobots had tunnelled under the wall and laid explosives. Anything the explosion hadn’t knocked down, the Dynobots had slammed through. 

Grindcore had been prepared for a siege. It wasn’t prepared for the Wreckers emerging from the ground in the courtyard. 

Skids wondered why he hadn’t foreseen such an assault. He’d warned Tarn that the Autobots were probing Grindcore’s defenses. He’d even helped Tarn devise countermeasures. Why hadn’t he thought to prepare for an attack from beneath? He felt as though it was his fault that the Dynobots and Wreckers had done so much damage. 

Skids had been all but forgotten as the alarms went off and the Commandant raced to the prison’s central control chamber to command the Decepticon counterattack. Even Talon, the guard who usually persisted in keeping a close watch on Skids, could not justify lingering to observe him when there were Wreckers outside. Talon had sprinted to join the rest of the Predators, stammering excuses for his tardiness into his comm link, not even bothering to tell Skids to stay put, let alone locking him in a cell. 

While the battle raged somewhere outside, Skids huddled underneath the Commandant’s desk, his thighs pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around his lower legs. He remembered the last time he’d been under the Commandant’s desk… 

…well, no, not the last time. 

The _last_ time he’d been under the Commandant’s desk, he’d had his lips wrapped around the Commandant’s spike, gently bobbing his head in time with the beat of the Empyrean Suite. Skids remembered how the Commandant’s hand had slipped down to caress his helm. The music, though unpleasantly loud, allowed him to forget what was happening on the other side of the Commandant’s window. Skids could dim his optics and lose himself in the scent and the taste of his Master. 

When it was all done, the Commandant had taken Skids to his berth and given him his reward. No spike—no surprise, given what Skids had done, and for how long—but the Master’s touch, and his collection of toys, was almost as good. 

It was a different memory nagging at Skids’s mind. Skids had trouble pinning it down. His memories were fickle things. Slippery, like oil. Indistinct, like shadows. It was as though his brain could only focus on recent events. More distant events grew hazy and indistinct, until it was hard for Skids to distinguish between memories and dreams. 

Skids had been under this desk before, alone in the empty office, curled up in agitation and fear just as he was now. He had been…hot? Yes. His valve aching. His thighs slick with moisture. So aroused, and yet so afraid… 

But that didn’t make sense. The Commandant fragged him strutless on a regular basis. How could he be so revved up and yet so alone and so frightened? 

Had the Commandant been away—at a meeting, perhaps? Maybe, but that wouldn’t explain why Skids had been afraid. The more Skids thought about it, the more he suspected that he was recalling a bad dream. He confused dreams with reality so often these days. 

Skids had no reason to fear his own arousal. He anticipated it. Craved it. The Commandant generously rewarded good service. He had no reason to fear his desire for his Master. 

He had to be recalling some twisted dream. 

But this—the invasion of Grindcore—this felt like a nightmare that had ripped free of his thoughts and emerged into the waking world. It couldn’t be happening. Skids didn’t want this to happen. 

What if the Autobots found him? Skids’s hand dropped to the place on his chest where he’d once worn his Autobot badge. It was gone, now. The Commandant had arranged for him to receive a fresh coat of paint. Now, it was as though he’d never worn the badge. Instead, he wore the Commandant’s collar, with its pendant in the shape of a Decepticon insignia. The collar told everyone who Skids belonged to. 

Sometimes he felt as though his being an Autobot had also been a dream. It was easy to pretend that he’d always been the Commandant’s personal engineer. But the way the Predators—especially Talon—treated him reminded him that he’d once been an Autobot. The fear he felt when he saw the Autobot prisoners staring at him proved his memory was real. They would kill him if they had the chance. They knew he was a traitor. 

Realization struck him with a jolt like an electrical surge. 

He was an Autobot. He was in Grindcore, the Decepticons’ most infamous prison. Right now, out in the courtyard, an Autobot strike force was attacking the jail and doubtlessly freeing the Autobots held captive within it. 

Why wasn’t he running outside, begging to be rescued? 

Just the thought of it made him sick with terror. 

Skids realized, through the fog that so often clouded his thoughts, that he didn’t _want_ to be rescued. 

_What would the Autobots think of you?_

_You fixed the smelting pool so the Commandant could keep melting down people alive to harvest sentio metallico for the Super MTO project._

_You seduced the Commandant to satisfy your own sick lusts._

_You became his engineer and his adjutant, of your own free will, and you’re complicit in everything he does._

Skids felt as though he were falling into a deep, dark pit with no bottom. His mind scrabbled frantically for a foothold. 

_I have intelligence. I know Prowl. Jazz. Mirage. I know how to spin this. I can cast myself as the victim. I can get out of this alive._

_But then you won’t be able to frag the Commandant any more_ , Skids thought, and the understanding almost made him ill. He’d rather die than live without his Master. 

His foothold gave way. Skids plummeted. He welcomed the drop. 

_This is who I am now. I’m the Commandant’s very personal engineer. It’s everything I ever wanted and the only thing I’ll ever desire to be._

_I can’t let the Autobots find me._

That meant he couldn’t stay here, in the Commandant’s office. If the Autobots were seeking intelligence, as he thought they might be, the Commandant’s office was a priority target. 

But there were footfalls and shouting and sporadic gunfire in the corridor. Skids didn’t dare open the door. If he timed it wrong, he’d walk right into the very invaders he was trying to avoid. 

Skids crawled across the room on hands and knees, towards the door that led to the Commandant’s personal quarters. He could hide here. There was no military intelligence where the Commandant recharged. 

The scent of the berth comforted him. He had many pleasant memories of the pleasures he’d found there. The pleasures he’d been given. 

Tonight, though, he crawled under the berth, wriggling his way to the far back corner, where he pressed himself up against the wall and held his breath in his vents, praying no Autobot would think to look here. 

He felt guilty. He was trained as a warrior. He knew Metallikato. He’d used his superlearner skills to master the majority of weapons in the Autobot arsenal. He had taken courses in strategy, tactics, leadership… 

But he was an ex-Autobot in a prison full of Decepticon soldiers, and surely his Master had the defense of Grindcore well in hand. Skids’s job wasn’t to fight. It was to serve. 

Skids waited. 

It was a long time until the gunfire stopped. A long time until he dared to stick his head out from under the bed. Skids activated his comm link. “Sir?” 

The Commandant did not answer. 

Skids moved to the Commandant’s desk. The Autobots had not come in here after all. Perhaps the Decepticons had repulsed them before they’d found the Commandant’s office. 

Skids activated the security cameras and gasped at what he saw. A huge gaping hole in the left main wall. Bodies in the courtyard, both Decepticon and Autobot. Open cell doors, empty cells. A small group of vehicles driving away to the north, pursued by the Predators in jet mode. More bodies, Autobots this time, and that Decepticon from the fitting room—Flywheels—kicking at one of the corpses. 

Then Skids saw the Commandant. 

He was lying on the floor, bleeding into the dust. Half his face had been ripped off. The perpetrator stood over him, sword raised… 

Skids felt his spark stop. 

A shadow loomed in the doorway behind the Autobot. The perpetrator turned his head, seemed to argue. The newcomer argued back. Skids recognized them through the mind fog. The mech in the doorway was Impactor. 

The one who had hurt the Commandant was Grimlock. 

Impactor must have been convincing. Grimlock snarled, spat, left with Impactor. 

Skids activated his comm link. “Glit, come in.” 

“This is Glit.” 

The medic was probably busy. Skids readied himself to argue. He didn’t care who else died as long as the Commandant lived. 

“The Commandant is in need of immediate medical assistance. Bring a team to these coordinates.” 

“Yes, sir.” Glit did not question Skids’s authority. 

“At once.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Skids stared at the Commandant, laying unmoving on the monitor. He wished Glit and the medical team would hurry. He wished he still believed in God so he could pray for the Commandant’s survival. 

Slowly, he realized that he did not have time to wait and wish and pray. The monitors showed him image after image of Decepticon forces reeling in the aftermath of the Autobot attack. 

Skids changed his comm setting. “Skyquake, this is Skids. Report.” 

Skyquake didn’t question him either. Of course not. The Predators were used to listening to him pass on the Commandant’s orders. They didn’t like it, but they were accustomed to it. 

“Instructions?” Skyquake said when his report was done. 

Skids had taken courses in strategy, tactics, leadership. 

He gave the Predator leader his instructions and hoped he was doing his Commandant’s will. 


	3. Permission

Chapter Three: Permission 

The Commandant feared that he was hallucinating, either from the pain, or from whatever drugs that sociopath Sauder had seen fit to pump into his systems while he was unconscious and unable to object. If so, his mind was catering to his spark’s deepest fantasies and showing him exactly the mech he wanted to see. 

Logically, though, he knew that an Autobot assault such as the one they’d just experienced would have been the perfect opportunity for a superlearner to effect his escape. 

“Skids?” the Commandant repeated. 

Skids lowered his datapad. “How are you feeling, sir?” his adjutant murmured as he approached his bedside. 

The Commandant spluttered. For once, the mech with the infamous Voice was at a loss for words. He wondered if he were dreaming. The situation certainly felt surreal enough to be a dream. 

Slowly, he raised his hands to his face. His right hand touched bare metal. His left hand probed dried energon and torn circuitboards and raw sentio metallico. At first he felt nothing; then he recoiled from a spear of agony that lit his entire neural net on fire. 

He remembered Grimlock’s claws tearing away layers from his face. 

No, he wasn’t dreaming. He could only wish he were. He’d only had this face for a handful of decades before it had been ruined. 

Not that he’d been showing it off much lately. These days he wore a mask so his prisoners—not to mention the Grindcore staff—wouldn’t know how often he closed his eyes. How often he turned away from the everyday cruelties of life in Grindcore. They’d tear him apart if they knew how squeamish their fearsome leader truly was. How weak he was at his core. 

Now his mask was gone. His face was mangled. And Skids, _his Skids_ , was looking directly at him. 

Skids’s expression showed concern, but no recognition. 

Of course not. The Commandant felt a modicum of relief. Why should Skids associate the Commandant with that faceless little gremlin called Glitch? 

_Other than your penchant of breaking machinery? You know, the reason why you had to blackmail Skids into performing repairs for you in the first place?_

But one clue had apparently not been enough for Skids to put the pieces of the Commandant’s identity together. 

Skids turned his gaze away. “I’m sorry, sir,” he murmured. 

The Commandant swallowed hard. “Whatever for?” 

Skids still didn’t look at him. “I know I’m not permitted to see under your mask. It was gone when I arrived here. I found it in front of the smelting chamber.” He rested his hand on a small table next to the Commandant’s bedside. “It’s in the top drawer but…” 

“But?” 

Skids winced. “It might be very painful to wear in your current condition.” 

“Who has seen me like this?” 

“Glit. His two assistants: Clamp and Sear.” A pause. “Me.” 

“Not Sauder?” 

“I’ve got a guard posted on the door with explicit instructions to keep Sauder and his buddy Arcweld away from you while you’re in recovery.” Skids clearly didn’t trust the sadistic doctor or the vicious scientist any more than they deserved to be trusted, which wasn’t very far at all. They were well-behaved prisoners, having earned the right to work in the medbay, but they had no empathy whatsoever for their patients. Or victims. They had to be watched closely lest they become confused as to the difference. The Commandant couldn’t help but feel relieved to know that Sauder and Arcweld hadn’t had the chance to experiment with him while he was unconscious. 

And yet… 

“On whose authority?” 

Skids flinched again. “You’ve been offline for a week,” he stammered. 

A _week_. This was a disaster. Surely Grindcore had collapsed without a firm hand to keep its staff and prisoners in line. 

Skids continued. “Someone had to run Grindcore in the meantime. Coordinate the defense effort. Drive off the Autobots. Round up the escaped prisoners. Repair the damage to the complex. Ensure the next delivery of sentio metallico to Thunderwing’s lab. Analyze the attack. And keep the prison’s daily operations on schedule.” He drew in a deep breath. “As far as anyone but you, me, and Glit are concerned, for the past week, the prison’s been running on _your_ authority.” 

“You.” The Commandant was stunned. “You took the initiative to do all these things.” 

“Someone had to. Skyquake is a fine tactician but he’s not an administrator.” At long last, Skids raised his optics. “I’m your adjutant. What else am I _for_?” 

Skids also had a very nice resume as a berthwarmer and playmate, but… The Commandant felt embarrassed to find himself thinking such thoughts at a time like this. He should punish the Autobot— _ex-_ Autobot—for his arrogance. He found himself feeling relieved instead. “Show me what you’ve done.” 

Skids lifted his datapad. “First, the analysis of the attack…” 

“No.” 

Skids cringed. 

The Commandant shifted his weight and then patted the berth next to him. “Climb up here and _then_ show me what you’ve done.” 

Skids couldn’t hide a little smile before he obeyed. 

The Commandant felt as though he were dreaming again as he pulled back the covers and Skids settled next to him. This time, it was a good dream. His body might be battered, his prison might be in ruins, and his career might be going down in flames, but he still had his personal engineer at his side. 

Skids began to explain. 

Yes, the damage to Grindcore was intense. The Commandant could not have prepared himself for the images he was shown. But what surprised him the most was the events of the last six days. The prison was running as though he were still directing it. 

Some prisoners had escaped, but most of them had been rounded up again—either alive or dead. The dead ones had already been thrown in the smelting pool and melted down, so Thunderwing’s next delivery of sentio metallico would happen on time. The other metal had been given to the 5 th Engineering Corps to use to repair the prison. 

“Scaffold and the 5th Engineering Corps say they should have Grindcore back to full operational status in three weeks. Essential services are already reconstructed save for the main wall. That’ll take another week.” Skids paused. “I’m getting pushback from Darkmount. He wants the 5th Corps building him another rocket site.” 

“Polyhex doesn’t need another rocket site. Thunderwing needs sentio metallico for Project Deszaras.” 

“You’ll need to tell Darkmount that.” Skids paused. “I have a cell for him to live in if he argues.” 

The Commandant laughed. “Hoarding war-critical resources?” 

Skids grinned. “Exactly.” 

“Skids, I can’t believe this.” 

Skids dropped his gaze again. “I just tried to do what you would do.” 

“You _did_ do what I would do.” The Commandant slid his hand under Skids’s chin and forced his engineer to meet his gaze. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t escape while you could.” 

“You said I belonged with you.” Skids held his gaze, and his expression was fully sincere. 

Skids’s memory wasn’t the best. The Commandant had actually said that Skids belonged _to_ him. There was a distinction there, the Commandant thought. 

Skids couldn’t duck his head, with the Commandant holding his chin in position, but he lowered his gaze. “Don’t you…want me?” 

“Oh, Skids.” The Commandant released his grip in favour of pulling Skids close. “Of course I do.” 

“I’m sorry I deceived everyone. Sorry I lied and told everyone that the orders were coming from you. I just… All I could think was to keep Grindcore going until you came back online.” 

“Skids, you did well.” 

Skids looked up at him hopefully. “Really?” 

“Really.” The Commandant smiled, ignoring the stab of pain in his lips, or the slow trickle of energon down from the cut he’d evidently re-opened. “It will be our little secret. Glit, Clamp and Sear will keep their mouths shut if they wish to stay out of the smelting pool.” He ran his thumb over Skids’s cheek. “You’ve done better than I ever could have hoped for.” 

“I’m your adjutant. It’s my job.” 

“Yes, it is.” He pulled Skids closer, savouring the sensation of his engineer’s body pressed against his own. 

“Would you like…?” Skids didn’t finish the sentence, but the Commandant saw Skids’s hand slide down the length of his body, and heard the snap of his valve panel clicking open. 

The Commandant could ordinarily not refuse such a tempting offer. But although he was conscious, his whole frame ached. He doubted he could perform satisfactorily, much as he’d like to. 

“I’m too sore for that, Skids.” The Commandant hated to say it. It was so hard to deny his hot, eager little pet. 

“Oh.” Skids lowered his gaze. “I could use my mouth?” 

That was a tempting offer. A very, very tempting offer. Just to lie back on his pillow and enjoy indulging himself with pleasure he truly thought he’d never experience again. To overload in Skids’s mouth and remind himself that his engineer had stayed with him, even though Grimlock and the Autobots would have gladly taken Skids back home. He ought to say that this was what he wanted. 

But when the Commandant spoke, the truth spilled from his lips. “Can I just hold you tonight?” 

Immediately the Commandant realized his mistake. He never asked Skids’s permission. He _told_ Skids what he intended to do to him. Skids wasn’t his courtmate—he was his slave. 

Skids nestled close. “I’d like that.” 

What could the Commandant do? He folded his arm around Skids as his engineer lay his head on the Commandant’s chest. A smile curved Skids’s lips. The Commandant felt Skids’s whole frame relax in his embrace. 

The Commandant, meanwhile, had never felt more tense. He should be grateful that Skids had salvaged the situation on his behalf, but instead he felt confused, bewildered, on edge. 

Skids’s next words made it worse. 

“I love you, sir.” 


	4. Jealous

Chapter Four: Jealous 

Skids dimmed his optics, secure in the knowledge he’d done the right thing. 

He’d been terrified for the past six days, directing all of Grindcore’s staff as though the Commandant had authorized his instructions. Octus had questioned him, and he’d threatened Octus with the Commandant’s wrath, as though he’d had every right to do so. Octus had blinked. Skids was glad. 

But now, he knew that the Commandant would back him up. 

No, he had no home with the Autobots any longer. His home was right here, in Grindcore, in the Commandant’s arms. 

His Master was conscious. He would recover. 

And Skids was exactly where he belonged. 

He wanted the Commandant—in a physical sense—but that could wait. They had all the time in the universe to make love once the Commandant recovered. Skids had everything he truly needed right now. His Master’s affection. His Master’s approval. 

Skids slipped into recharge, perfectly content. 

* 

When Skids awoke, the Commandant was already gone. 

Skids sat up, staring around the medbay room in confusion. The Commandant really shouldn’t be walking around in his condition. He was obviously still in pain… 

_He’s too weak to frag me_ . Which was one of his favourite pastimes. 

Not to mention the raw wound on his face. 

Skids was well aware how many Decepticons were in critical condition elsewhere in the medbay. How many had died because he’d insisted Glit give his full attention to the Commandant’s recovery. Even so, Glit had not paid much attention to the Commandant’s face. A cosmetic wound, he said. He’d sprayed it to prevent a rust infection and left it to heal on its own. Skids didn’t dare push the medic too far. He might be a superlearner, but even he couldn’t teach himself advanced surgery in a matter of hours. Not when his Master’s life was on the line. 

Skids slid out of the berth and opened the door. The guard was gone. Skids frowned. 

He found Glit at the bedside of Falcon, one of the Predators who’d been injured in the attack. Glit was in the process of giving instructions to Clamp when Skids appeared in the doorway. Glit excused himself to go talk to Skids. 

“Where is he?” Skids asked without preamble. 

Glit hung his head. “Megatron is here.” 

_Megatron_ . Skids felt his spark clench. 

Logically, he’d known that Megatron would want to know what had happened. He’d also been well aware that Megatron was more interested in results than in justifications. Megatron would be angry that the Autobot attack had succeeded. He wouldn’t care about extenuating circumstances. 

Skids felt as though he’d salvaged the situation well enough so that the Commandant would at least retain his rank and position, but that wasn’t the only problem here. 

The problem was that the dynamic between the Commandant and Megatron wasn’t just business. 

Skids would never forget what had happened the _last_ time Megatron had visited Grindcore. 

* 

Skids had spent the night locked in a cell, which hadn’t been a surprise. He suspected he still counted as a prisoner, and prisoners typically ought to be contained when they weren’t being actively supervised. The Commandant would be too busy to supervise him. He’d settled down to recharge, knowing the Commandant would let him out when Megatron left and everything would go back to normal. The slab in the cell wasn’t particularly comfortable, but Skids had been thoroughly tired out by the Commandant that morning, and he’d drifted off to recharge right away. 

He’d actually needed Talon to wake him up the next morning. Talon had watched him leave the cell with a funny little leer that Skids hadn’t understood. 

Not until he’d entered the Commandant’s office and smelled the sweet tang of valve lubricant, the ozone of discharge, and the harsh musk of cordite. 

Skids had looked through the door from the Commandant’s office into his private quarters. The Commandant was in the process of changing the coverings on his berth—a job he usually made Skids do. Skids was well accustomed to seeing wet patches of valve lubricant on the tarps, but always that lubricant had been _his_. 

The Commandant looked up and met Skids’s gaze. 

Skids looked away. At the dent marks on the Commandant’s hips. At the drying fluids on the Commandant’s inner thighs. 

_No_ . 

Skids recoiled, and in doing so, locked optics with the Commandant again. He couldn’t control the dismay on his face. He felt sick. 

Which was entirely unreasonable. What business was it of his if Megatron was fucking the Commandant? He wasn’t the Commandant’s conjunx endura. Or his courtmate. They weren’t _dating_. They weren’t even lovers in the conventional sense. Skids was here to serve the Commandant; that was all. The Commandant had every right to frag whomever he pleased. 

But Skids—superlearner, superachiever—was jealous. 

Skids didn’t know how he’d bear it if the Commandant started taking other playmates to his berth. Other prisoners would be terrible. Other _staff_ would be bad enough. 

Skids was pretty sure the Commandant wasn’t sharing his berth with anyone else on account of how much time he spent in it. The Commandant didn’t have that many opportunities to play with anyone else. Though Skids supposed the occasional quickie in the cells or something would be possible… 

Skids forced himself to stop pursuing this line of thinking before his thoughts ran away with him entirely. Just because the Commandant _could_ didn’t mean he _would_. He’d been so reticent when Skids had pursued him. It had taken all Skids’s considerable talents to seduce him. 

_But now that you’ve given him a taste for it, do you think he’s fragging other people_ ? 

Skids bit his lower lip hard enough to taste energon. The pain helped to focus his thoughts. 

No. He really didn’t think the Commandant had been fragging anyone else except Megatron. 

Skids trembled. 

He had no grounds to demand the Commandant do anything. He definitely didn’t have any kind of power over Megatron. Even the Commandant would have to obey Megatron… 

Skids felt sick for an entirely different reason. 

Had Megatron _forced_ the Commandant? 

Skids was trying to think of a way to get answers without asking directly when the Commandant dropped the bedding, straightened up and came towards him. 

Skids hung his head, ashamed of his reaction. His job was to serve his Lord and nothing more. 

But his optics streamed with light. 

The Commandant slid his hand under Skids’s chin. “Come now, my engineer, don’t cry.” 

Skids sniffed and blinked his optics, trying to halt the streams. 

The Commandant’s other arm curled around Skids’s waist. Skids didn’t resist as his Master drew him close. “Let’s go to the oil baths, shall we?” 

Skids followed dutifully as the Commandant took him to his private wash station. It was a mercy to busy himself with his usual chores: setting the oil bath to warm, laying out solvents and towels, covering the floor with mats. He assembled the full selection of cleaning products and tools just to give himself something to do. By the time he had finished, the bath was warm. The Commandant stepped into it and beckoned for Skids to join him. 

Skids sat next to the Commandant on the bench, but a moment later the Commandant had pulled him into his lap. Skids didn’t resist. It felt natural—normal—to let his legs open, to straddle his Master’s lap and rest his hands on the Commandant’s tracked shoulders. 

The Commandant dropped his masked face to Skids’s audio. “You know I serve Lord Megatron, don’t you, my engineer?” 

Skids felt his spark freeze. “Yes.” 

“Just as you serve me.” 

Skids hesitated. He’d never thought of it that way. 

He was here to help the Commandant. Sometimes it was with his skills and talents, like repairing the machinery or assisting with the guards’ schedules. Sometimes it was with his companionship, like when he shared meals with the Commandant or kept him company in the evenings. And, yes, sometimes it was in very intimate ways. 

He’d never considered that the Commandant might help Megatron in all those ways. 

“Yes,” Skids said slowly. 

“This is normal,” the Commandant murmured. “It’s the natural way of things. I serve Megatron; you serve me.” 

“You serve him. I serve you.” Yes, that did make sense. 

“So there’s no need for you to be envious. Unless…” The Commandant drew his head back. “You don’t want to take my place as Commandant, do you?” 

Him? Replace the Commandant? Run the prison…lay with Megatron? “No!” Skids protested. 

The Commandant chuckled. “I didn’t think so.” He gently stroked Skids’s helm. “You’re just lonely, aren’t you? All revved up after a night alone.” 

That wasn’t exactly Skids’s primary concern. He hated the idea of the Commandant in the berth with anyone else. Hated the idea that anyone else might give his Master pleasure. 

Skids wasn’t sure when he’d started feeling so monogamous. He’d never been one to tie himself down to just one partner. Nor had he cared about who else his partners were seeing when he wasn’t around. 

“Do you still want me?” Skids whispered. 

He felt insecure. Exposed. He could not quite articulate the threat he’d face if the Commandant decided that Megatron was lover enough. His mind refused to conceive of it. 

“Oh, Skids.” The Commandant continued to pet him. “Who else would ride my spike so prettily? Who else would spread his thighs for me so eagerly?” 

Skids startled. He looked at the Commandant and bit his lip rather than ask the question he dared not speak out loud. 

The Commandant intuited it anyway. 

“Spikes are for masters. Valves are for servants. That’s natural, isn’t it?” 

Skids felt an all-too-familiar sensation. The one where the room started to spin, until Skids’s mind spiralled out of his body, and ended up floating a foot below the ceiling. Then he had to look down on himself, watching his body moving and talking on its own. It was an uncanny feeling, as though something were wrong, and yet he’d never been able to articulate the wrongness. Perhaps the error was that he _felt_ as though something was wrong when in fact everything was just fine. Perhaps the glitch was in him. 

Right now, his mind wanted to argue that _no_ , actually there were neither laws nor social conventions that the mech who used his spike was the dominant partner. Skids felt as though—well, maybe they were only dreams—but didn’t he recall _personally participating_ in encounters where he used his valve while dominating his partner? Hadn’t he submitted to lovers on multiple occasions by using his spike in the ways they demanded? Wasn’t it common for him to use both valve and spike during a tryst? 

Or were these phantasms only dreams? 

Because right now, his mouth was agreeing with the Commandant. “Yes, it is natural.” The words slipped from his lips so easily. 

Perhaps it was the truth after all. 

Megatron spiked the Commandant, and the Commandant spiked Skids. Masters. Servants. 

It was why the Commandant had never shown any interest in Skids’s spike. Nor had he ever opened his valve panel in Skids’s presence. 

“You serve Megatron. I serve you. So Megatron isn’t going to replace me?” 

The Commandant chuckled. “I think Megatron is too busy to share my berth every night, don’t you?” 

But then his optics grew wistful, and a brutal wrenching sensation in his spark pulled Skids’s mind back into his body. The Commandant looked sad. As though he _wanted_ to share his body with Megatron every night. In the Commandant’s perfect world, there was no room for Skids. Skids’s spark ached just to think of it. 

“You’re very lucky, you know,” the Commandant murmured. “To lie with your Master night after night.” 

Skids felt stung. Here he’d been getting jealous of Megatron, without ever once stopping to think that he, unlike the Commandant, could actually _live_ in his perfect world. At least, every night when Megatron wasn’t in Grindcore. 

He had no right to complain. 

“I know,” Skids murmured. He pressed his lips to the Commandant’s palm. “Thank you, sir.” 


	5. Earned

Chapter Five: Earned   


The Commandant watched Megatron walk down the hall, heading for his personal transport. The Commandant realized that he ought to feel fortunate. He still had his rank. His job. His _life_. He had an opportunity to earn his way back into Megatron’s good graces. Megatron had given him another chance. 

He felt sick, regardless. 

It was not simply that Megatron had declined to spend the night. Megatron did not make love to him unless he earned it. Preventing this attack from degenerating into an utter catastrophe did not constitute earning it. Not even the intelligence that Skyquake had gotten out of the captured Wreckers could have earned it. That intelligence was like a balm on an open wound; a wound that should never have happened in the first place. 

Like the open sore on the Commandant’s face, still tender, now ringing where Megatron had slapped him. Like Megatron’s words still ringing in his audios. 

“I give you a new face, and _this_ is all the care you take of it?” 

What could he possibly say in his own defense? He couldn’t say that Grimlock had been his physical better. That would be an insult to the body Megatron had given him. 

The Commandant also didn’t think it was true. This had been a moral failing. He had neglected his hand to hand combat training, and he’d gotten soft and sloppy. He’d started relying on his rank and his guards and his demeanour to keep prisoners in line. None of that had been enough when he’d come face-to-face with an enraged Dynobot. 

He’d thought he’d mastered the new trick with his voice, but he hadn’t been able to pitch his voice in time with Grimlock’s spark. Grimlock wouldn’t hold still or keep quiet long enough for him to concentrate. Every time he thought he almost had it, the Dynobot would hit him or kick him or shove him and he’d lose his concentration. 

Someday he’d be able to drop Grimlock with a whisper, but not without a lot more practice. 

He’d overestimated himself, and he deserved everything Megatron had done to him. 

He ducked back into his office, looked in the mirror and scowled. He looked like he was fit for the junkheap. No wonder Megatron was angry. 

Megatron’s words haunted him. “I’d hoped you’d use this opportunity to live up to your full potential. But one look at you, Damus, and I can see all your shortcomings. Engraved across your face by Grimlock’s fist.” 

Scowling, the Commandant opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out his mask. He dropped it back over his face. 

Yes. Better. Nobody could see the scarring now. Not unless they got close enough to look at the little gap under his left eye… 

A thought crossed his mind. 

Glit hadn’t had time to fix the scarring. He was too busy trying to save the lives of the guards in critical condition to give cosmetic damage much thought. Skids hadn’t trusted Sauder or Arcweld with the repair—and wisely so. 

Perhaps he should keep it. Perhaps he _should_ leave his shortcomings engraved across his face. It would be a reminder to him not to make those mistakes again. Not to let himself grow soft. Not to permit himself to lose control of the situation. Every time he saw himself in the mirror he would remember that he needed to stay sharp and merciless and unforgiving, both to himself and to everyone else. He’d received this injury because he’d forgotten. 

Megatron was right. He didn’t deserve to be handsome. 

The sore burned and throbbed. The Commandant took his mask off as he walked across his office towards the door to his private quarters. He entered his room and tossed the mask onto his end table. 

Damus of Tarn lay down on his back on his berth and stared at the ceiling. 

His olfactory sensors detected a familiar scent. His bedding smelled like Skids. 

Ah, another thing he didn’t deserve. 

His engineer hadn’t begged the Autobots to save him. Instead, Skids had voluntarily stayed behind in Grindcore and coordinated the Decepticon counterattack. 

The Commandant should be angry at Skids’s presumptiveness. It set a dangerous precedent and displayed an alarming amount of audacity. Surely it was another sign of how he’d gone soft. Skids should be far too frightened of him to dare to take unapproved initiative. 

But how could he punish Skids for doing the things that had salvaged the Commandant’s rank and position? 

_You saved yourself when you made him your adjutant._

The Commandant sat up. If that were true…then Skids was his _assistant_ , wasn’t he? Not merely a pet with some useful tricks. Not just a slave that had been terrorized into doing what he was told. Skids had done exactly what an assistant ought to do. There was nothing soft about that. Tarn had turned Skids into the perfect adjutant. 

Damus should be pleased. Instead, he felt disturbed. He’d only ever intended to finally frag the object of little Glitch’s lust. He’d not thought beyond getting Skids into his berth. He certainly hadn’t planned to _keep_ Skids as his right-hand mech, or to convert him into a proper Decepticon. 

_You can’t get soft. And you can’t let yourself lose control of the situation. If you didn’t plan on this outcome, then somewhere, you went wrong._

He thought back, trying to identify the point where he’d lost control. Surely he hadn’t been soft from the start? Damus had been very careful to avoid terrorizing Skids into capitulating to an intimate relationship, but he had a reason for that. None of his fantasies about Skids had ever involved fear. He’d wanted Skids, but conditionally: Skids had to want him, too. 

He’d carefully designed a scenario in which Skids had been tempted to steal a treat that he didn’t know was an aphrodisiac. He’d “kindly” forgiven Skids his trespass while “helping” him recover. He’d encouraged Skids’s fantasies and played along when Skids made even the most hesitant overture. Now Skids believed he’d been the instigator all along: the seducer and tempter who’d overcome the Commandant’s propriety with his charms and his wiles. 

Skids believed it so thoroughly that, when handed a chance to be free, he’d chosen instead to work against the only mechs who could liberate him from the Commandant’s shackles. The Commandant should be pleased with how thorough he’d been. Such a choice was surely the final culmination of the Commandant’s machinations. 

And yet… 

The Commandant hadn’t expected Skids to fall in love with him. Truthfully, he’d failed to consider that such a thing was even possible. 

Lying here on his berth, Damus remembered that moment in the medbay, where Skids had confessed his feelings. Skids had fallen asleep almost immediately afterwards. Damus, however, had lain awake for some time, and his injuries had not had anything to do with it. He asked himself now, as he asked himself then, if there wasn’t something horribly _wrong_ about Skids being in love with him. 

Surely it couldn’t be love. Not _really_. It was the product of an illusion that Damus had crafted. Even if Skids himself thought it was real, Damus knew it was merely a phantasm. Skids’s _love_ was built on a foundation of lies and tricks and deception. 

_And what about you? How do you feel?_

Damus admitted he was very _fond_ of his personal engineer. Back in the Dugout, he’d have done anything to have Skids pay attention to him. 

But that wasn’t the same as _love_ , was it? He’d been attracted to Skids, even infatuated with him, but surely his youthful crush had not been love. And now, his feelings for Skids paled next to the feelings he had developed for Megatron. 

Damus could never love anyone else the way he loved Megatron. His love for Megatron was an all-consuming adoration. He would do anything Megatron asked, without question. He would suffer however Megatron wanted him to suffer. He would live each day to serve his Master’s will, and he would be grateful for anything that Megatron chose to bestow upon him. 

Even if it was harsh words. 

Even if it was a slap. 

_Just as Skids does for you._

Damus stood up, stricken with realization. He remembered that day in the oil bath, the last time Megatron had been here. Skids had sat on his lap and fretted, wrestling with the knowledge that his Master was Megatron’s lover. Damus had soothed him by pointing out that just as Skids served him, so he served Megatron. That was the natural order of things. 

So, then, it was only natural for Skids to love him. 

This wasn’t a problem at all. Skids loved him, as he loved Megatron. Expected. Natural. 

This was fine. 

If Megatron had wanted Damus under him tonight, then Damus would have complied, and gladly so. But Megatron had forsaken him. He didn’t deserve Megatron’s affections tonight. 

Whereas Skids… 

Skids had more than earned the affections of his Commandant. 


	6. Summons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Tarn as victim of physical abuse and perpetrator of abuse of authority, emotional abuse and psychological manipulation.

Chapter Six: Summons 

Skids buried his nose in the pillow, heedless of the dried energon and rust flakes soaking it. It smelled like bloodshed and pain, but it also smelled like the Commandant. 

Skids had found himself with nowhere to go save back to the Commandant’s recently vacated berth in the medbay. He didn’t dare go back to the Commandant’s quarters. Not while the Commandant was entertaining Megatron. 

It seemed silly to go find an empty cell to lock himself in. Silly and potentially dangerous. The guards and staff would still be on edge after the attack. They’d be liable to shoot anything that didn’t have a Decepticon badge. 

Skids didn’t know if the pendant on his collar counted as a Decepticon badge. He doubted it. 

No, it was better for him to lie low. Let the Decepticon staff forget about him. They’d see the Commandant walking about sooner or later, and they’d forget they’d ever noticed his absence, or questioned Skids about where he was really getting his orders from. Once things got back to situation normal, the staff wouldn’t think twice about the Commandant’s adjutant following him around. 

Skids had every reason to believe that situation normal would return soon enough. It seemed as though the Commandant had forgiven him for his presumption. He should be grateful for that. Instead, he pulled the berth covers tightly around himself and breathed in the Commandant’s scent and tried not to think about what the Commandant was doing with Megatron right now. 

What did the Commandant’s valve look like? Skids had never seen it. The Commandant refused to open his valve panel in Skids’s presence. 

Skids imagined it would be grey like his spike. Pinstriped with gold. The deep inner lining would be a rich purple colour. His anterior node would be broad, but it would tighten to a hard nugget under Skids’s tongue. 

Skids would make the Commandant so happy if he were ever given the chance. 

His mind insisted on conjuring up an image of Megatron’s spike thrusting roughly into that decadent valve. 

The Commandant…on his knees? Surely not. Surely the Commandant was lounging on his back on his berth, and Megatron atop him. 

Skids’s brain, however, insisted on the worst possible fantasy. Megatron shoving the Commandant to his knees, spitting vitriol at him, berating him for his failure, grabbing his hips and pulling him back onto his spike, snarling that if he couldn’t run a prison then he could at least be good for something… 

Skids sobbed into the pillow. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know that the Commandant wasn’t enjoying his encounter with Megatron. If he was—would that make it better, or worse? 

Immediately he hated himself. What kind of decent person would even think seriously about that question? Of _course_ he didn’t want his Commandant forced into an unwanted tryst. His Commandant being brutalized was far worse than his Commandant willingly cheating on him… 

Skids pressed his fists to his optics. 

_It’s not cheating. You’re not his conjunx. You’re not even his courtmate, and you can’t ever be._

If he felt badly now, perhaps he deserved it. He was a terrible person. Absolute scum. 

For some reason the Commandant valued him anyway. He ought to be grateful for that. 

At that moment, his comm link went off. 

He sat upright on the berth, straightening his spinal strut and wiping his optics before he answered. “This is Skids.” 

“Hello,” the Commandant purred. “Are you busy?” 

Skids was startled. “N-no.” 

_Should I be?_

But he hadn’t been assigned any work. He couldn’t go to the Commandant’s quarters when Megatron was there. And he’d pushed the Commandant’s tolerance quite far enough by running the prison in his absence. 

“Excellent. Would you like to come to my quarters?” 

“Yes, sir!” 

The Commandant chuckled. “See you soon, then.” 

The connection broke. 

Skids wondered where Megatron was. According to his chronometer, the main workday was over. Most mechs would be refuelling or settling in to enjoy their evenings. Had Megatron left already? Or…was he still in the Commandant’s office? 

Skids shivered at the thought. 

His mind, of course, offered up all manner of perverted thoughts. Having to watch while Megatron fragged the Commandant. Or Megatron demanding that the Commandant watch while Megatron fragged _Skids_. Megatron forcing the Commandant to prove his loyalty by offering up his engineer. 

These hideous daydreams made Skids hesitate just outside the Commandant’s door. He was eager to see his Master again, but he wasn’t certain what might be waiting for him inside. Perhaps he’d regret his haste. Still, there was no use in putting it off. 

Skids knocked on the door. The portal slid open. The Commandant sat on the couch to the side of his office, with a glass of energon in his hand. Another glass glowed softly on the low table in front of the couch, but as far as Skids could tell, the Commandant was alone. 

“Come in and drink up,” the Commandant urged him. “You’ll need your energy tonight.” 

Skids’s foolish spark leapt with excitement at the same time as his fuel tank turned over with anxiety. 

He walked forward, looking into the Commandant’s private chambers as he did so. The Commandant’s berth appeared to be empty, and its tarps were neatly tucked in, as though it hadn’t been used in some time. 

That was no guarantee – he and the Commandant had done all manner of things on the couch, the floor, the Commandant’s desk – but Skids couldn’t smell anything, either, and the Commandant wasn’t all that much shinier than he’d been the last time Skids had seen him. He looked as though he’d given his frame a quick polish, but he was still scuffed and dented from the battle. There were no new dents that Skids could see. So, the Commandant hadn’t had much time to clean himself up for Megatron, and certainly not enough time to wash off any evidence of interface in an oil bath. 

Belatedly, Skids’s olfactory sensors brought him an aroma. Yes, he could smell something. It just wasn’t valve fluid or spike discharge or any of the usual scents he associated with interfacing. Skids could smell raw energon. 

A moment later, he saw it. Dark pink liquid oozing from the damage on the Commandant’s face. As though something had disturbed the delicately sealed-over and scabbed area. Something that could leave a swathe of crumpled circuits in a perfect line in its wake. Damage that, Skids knew, hadn’t been there before. He’d certainly stared closely enough at the Commandant’s wound while he slept. 

Skids wasn’t a forensics specialist, but he’d picked up bits and pieces of information from his associations with Spec Ops. That was part of what it meant to be a superlearner – he learned and retained whether he intended to or not. Sometimes he took up a subject not out of any personal interest but merely in hopes of connecting the fragments of data that had taken up residence in his rain. His knowledge of forensics was still rudimentary, and of course he didn’t have any tools to help with his analysis, but if he had to guess, he’d say that the fresh damage to the Commandant’s face was the result of a slap. 

Raw fury flared in his spark. Oh, and he knew it was wrong—who was an Autobot prisoner to dare judge his Master’s Lord? –but he felt enraged at the thought that Megatron would treat his Commandant that way, and if hate could kill, his hatred in that moment would have dropped Megatron dead where he stood. 

There was no way Skids could even mention his suspicion to the Commandant. Far be it from an adjutant to make his superior look weak. 

Skids sat. He vowed he would not stare at the Commandant’s face. He allowed himself a quick glance at the Commandant’s thighs—clean—before picking up his drink and taking a deep swallow. It tasted like high-quality fuel, the same sort that was Skids’s usual meal these days. Being the Commandant’s personal engineer had greatly improved his diet. 

Perhaps the Commandant just wanted Skids to help him forget about Megatron, and what Megatron had done to his face. Skids hoped so. He’d be more than happy to help. 


	7. Experiment

Chapter Seven: Experiment 

The Commandant’s spark swirled with indecision as he watched Skids drinking the fuel he’d provided. 

Megatron didn’t know about his little pet. The Commandant wondered if Megatron would care. After all, Megatron had ever so many little pets of his own. Slugslinger, the mouthy one. Windsweeper, the fussy one. Battletrap, the enthusiastic one. Deadlock, the bristly one he’d picked up out of the gutter. 

Damus felt his throat tighten. Deadlock was one of two who’d stuck around the _longest_ , and Damus hated him for that, because a casual fling was one thing, but an ongoing relationship was something else. Megatron could have _Damus_ , but he wanted the Rodion gutter trash instead? 

Getting worked up about Deadlock was a distraction from the one mech Damus of Tarn really didn’t want to think about. The one who’d had Megatron’s optic before Megatron and Damus had ever even met. 

_Starscream of Vos._

Megatron had a succession of jets in and out of his berth room, and Damus suspected that most of them were all just stand-ins for Starscream. Starscream was beautiful and talented, a first-wave cold constructed mech with everything to prove. He had enough skill to earn his place and enough insecurity to fear he didn’t deserve it. The combinations made him dangerous. 

And Megatron couldn’t _see_ it. 

Megatron, for all he said that all Cybertronians were equal—for all he glorified the heavy industrial mechanisms who made up the bulk of the Cybertronian forces—well, Megatron certainly had a taste for the pretty ones, didn’t he? Light jets and speedsters, the occasional helicopter or sport utility vehicle. Not a lot of _tanks_ in Megatron’s berth. 

Sometimes Damus of Tarn didn’t know if he was striving to become Megatron’s lover, or to become _Megatron_. He felt as though Megatron were guiding him towards the second, even though he wanted to be the first. 

_If I become more like him, will he love me more?_

_Or will he nod with approval and then take Starscream into his arms?_

Damus felt a strange sensation roiling in his spark. It felt like anger. 

_I work so hard, and I get posted to this hellish prison, where my skills go soft, where every day surrounds me with living nightmares, and Megatron goes home to frag Starscream or Deadlock or whatever streamlined mech has caught his optic, and leaves me here?_

Immediately he felt guilty. It wasn’t right for him to question Megatron’s will. It was…treasonous. The one thing he hated most of all. 

If Megatron took lovers, then it was right for him to do it. 

So if Megatron wished to shape Damus in his own image… 

Then it followed that Damus should take lovers as well. Pretty things to occupy his time when Megatron was elsewhere indisposed. 

He’d certainly chosen well. The recent attack had given Skids an opportunity to stab him in the back, and as an Autobot, he certainly had a motive. Instead, Skids had covered for Damus until he came back online. Damus had reviewed Skids’s work and he had to be honest, he couldn’t have done a better job himself. His engineer was just so _clever_. 

Damus was not entirely certain he wanted a parade of lovers, like Megatron’s. His engineer was very satisfying all on his own. 

But… 

Damus’s conscience pricked him again. Perhaps having Skids as a playmate could be forgiven, but getting _soft_ could not be. Whatever he might feel for Skids, it could not possibly be _love_. Skids was a tool, an instrument, an extension of the Commandant’s will. Damus had to remember that. Megatron would approve of such an approach. Everything was fodder in pursuit of the goals of the Decepticon Cause. 

If he allowed himself to become overly attached to his adjutant, it would end badly for him, and worse for Skids. 

Damus wondered if he ought to deny Skids tonight. He mustn’t spoil his pet. He’d been very indulgent with Skids before the Autobots had attacked. 

Yet Skids deserved a very special reward for his good, hard work this past week. And Damus wanted nothing more than for Skids to work his magic and help him to forget about that look of disgust on Megatron’s face when he’d slapped him. 

How could he do that without getting too attached…without being _soft_? How could he combine the distance required of a mech of his rank with his thirst to hear Skids screaming in pleasure… 

_Stay cold and in control or Grimlock will give you another pounding_ , he thought, and then an idea occurred to him. 

A wonderful, awful idea. 

He could care for Skids as much as he liked, but it would never be love. 

A mech didn’t experiment on people he _loved_. 

The perfection of his notion thrilled him to his core. He could get what he wanted and give Skids a reward without being too indulgent after all. 

Secure in the knowledge that his fondness for Skids had not crossed an inappropriate boundary, the Commandant leaned forward and purred, with a little extra trill in his voice, “How’s the fuel?” 

“Good?” Skids peered up at the Commandant as though his opinion could have a right and a wrong answer, and he was waiting to see if he’d guessed correctly. The Commandant found it endearing, if a bit troublesome. Sometimes he needed to press the issue to be certain that Skids was telling him the truth and not just giving him the answer Skids thought he wanted to hear…though, as of late, Skids had started dropping his gaze when he spoke truths he didn’t think the Commandant would like. That was sweet, too—this ultra-competent Autobot agent wasn’t even bothering to hide his tells. 

But this time, Skids’s gaze darted sideways. That was a new gesture. The Commandant hesitated, wondering what it meant, and a moment later guessed the answer. 

“You can look at my face, Skids.” 

Skids’s gaze returned to the Commandant’s optics. “Thank you, sir.” He sipped his drink. “I…I remember you told me it was forbidden for me to remove your mask.” 

“Oh, it is, but it doesn’t count if I’ve removed it myself.” Damus changed the modulation in his voice and spoke again. “Or, I suppose, if an Autobot has forcibly removed it.” 

Skids peeped up at him. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” 

Another change in his pitch, ever so slight, before he answered. “It seems the damage has been done now, as it were.” He rubbed at the raw sore. 

Skids shivered as he set down his empty glass. 

Damus chastised himself. He had to be cautious. Practice would hone his voice from a cudgel into a scalpel. Could he hone it into a feather, as well? 

But he had the right pitch, if he could get the right tone. “And I think I can trust you with this secret.” There. Light and sweet. 

“Oh, yes, sir.” Skids seemed unaffected, and Damus frowned. Perhaps he’d been _too_ sweet. 

Skids toyed nervously with his hands. “Permission to speak freely?” 

“Granted.” No, that wasn’t quite the right tone. Another adjustment… 

“You’re very striking-looking.” Skids looked up at him shyly. 

Damus’s spark wrenched. 

_Striking._ He _had_ been, eight days ago. He wished Skids had seen him then. He should have taken his mask off for his pet before this. 

Now he was scarred, unsightly, flawed… Damaged goods. 

“I have a scar, Skids.” 

“Glit can’t repair that?” 

“Glit is not permitted to repair this.” His voice crackled with…what? Anger? Sorrow? Bitterness? Finality? He didn’t know how to name the maelstrom of emotions in his spark, and the power in his voice fizzled out into nothingness. 

_Focus, Damus_ . 

_This is why Grimlock beat you. Because you didn’t focus._

_It shouldn’t matter what you’re feeling. Physical pain, emotional turmoil…it doesn’t matter._

_Try again, please._

Heh. His inner voice had started to sound like his old director, Pianoforte. 

“It’s a reminder, Skids,” he purred, seeking that pitch, the one that harmonized with Skids’s spark frequency. His voice slid around the scale, hunting for the right sound. “A reminder of what happens when I let myself get soft.” 

“Oh.” Skids seemed dismayed. “Is it…wrong if I still think you’re striking?” 

“Is it wrong that I think you’re very handsome?” the Commandant replied smoothly. On the last word, Skids stiffened. 

_There._

That was the tone of Skids’s spark. 

“You…” 

“You’re my _engineer_ ,” Damus continued, growing more confident in the pitch, playing with the tone. A feather-light caress on Skids’s spark. “Ours is first and foremost a _business_ relationship. Save for that little _accident_ you had with my sweets box.” 

“When I stole your candy.” Skids looked abashed. 

“A shortcoming, yes, but one not without extenuating circumstances.” Damus wondered if Skids had guessed that he had told the Predators to withhold fuel. That he, the Commandant, had made certain that Skids was painfully hungry before leaving him alone in this office with that box of aphrodisiac-laced treats. 

“That’s kind of you to say,” Skids said, visibly resisting the urge to curl his knees up to his chest. 

It might be a lie—a way to maintain the fiction that the Commandant was innocent in what had transpired—but Damus didn’t think so. Skids looked far too guilty, far too vulnerable, for it to be an act. 

Damus leaned over towards his engineer. “Think instead what came of that encounter,” he breathed, and oh, _yes_ , _this_ was the tone he wanted. Skids’s face flushed with heat. He shifted, ever so slightly parting his thighs. Damus couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “What _fun_ we’ve had since.” 

Skids turned to the Commandant, looking up at him hopefully. It was obvious that Skids wanted more of such _fun_ tonight. 


	8. Blanket

Chapter Eight: Blanket 

As happened so often, Skids couldn’t guess the Commandant’s emotional state. He felt uneasy, not knowing if his Master was truly content with him, or if the Commandant was setting him up for a punishment that had been planned out in advance. 

Skids didn’t know why else the Commandant would have seen fit to remind him that he’d stolen that candy. Skids also didn’t know what the Commandant meant by “extenuating circumstances.” Being hungry was surely no excuse for theft. 

Skids felt as though the Commandant was setting a trap for him to walk into. He didn’t know whether he ought to lie, to try to save himself, or tell the truth and accept his punishment. 

_Lying now will make the punishment worse when you’re caught. As you inevitably will be._

That was his rational Autobot mind, telling him the truth, and yet not the reason for Skids’s decision. His new Decepticon mind cut to the heart of the matter. 

_I don’t want to lie to him. He’s my Lord._

“That’s kind of you to say,” Skids whispered, struggling not to curl up into a ball, for comfort or to protect himself from impending blows, he didn’t know. 

The Commandant leaned close. Skids tried not to flinch. 

“Think instead what came of that encounter.” The Commandant’s voice felt like a physical caress, wrapping Skids’s body in velvet. 

Skids’s brain obligingly obeyed. The images that unfolded from his memories…were they why his face suddenly blossomed with heat, or why his valve grew wet and slick almost immediately? Before he could help himself, Skids found himself shifting his weight, parting his thighs. The air felt cool against his valve panel, but his frame blazed hotter yet. He wanted to open his legs more. He wanted… 

He wanted to interface. Right _now_. 

Skids felt embarrassed. He really was an interfacing fiend, wasn’t he? 

He hadn’t had interface with the Commandant in a week. Did that count as “extenuating circumstances” that could excuse him from being a pervert? It was the longest he’d gone without interface since their affair had started in earnest. He looked up at his Master, ashamed of the extent of his physical needs. 

Skids’s spark leapt with joy when he saw that the Commandant was smiling. “What fun we’ve had since,” the Commandant murmured, and Skids’s frame responded with sudden and shocking eagerness. 

The Commandant chuckled. “Delightful,” he purred, and it felt as though a thick, warm coating poured over Skids’s spark. It thrilled him even as it made him hungry for more. 

The Commandant took Skids’s hand and said in a low, quiet voice, “Shall we go to the berth?” 

It was all Skids could do not to jump to his feet and drag the Commandant behind him. He nodded eagerly, not trusting his voice to any degree of decorum. Skids bit his lip, forcing himself to wait as the Commandant rose, then helped Skids to his feet. They walked to the Commandant’s private quarters, with Skids leaning as close as he dared to his Master’s side. 

The Commandant closed the door behind them. Skids sat on the bed, waiting eagerly. “Now, before you get too comfortable,” the Commandant said, “I should warn you that you won’t be having full interface tonight.” 

Skids immediately felt crushed. Still, his arousal was undiminished. It seemed to feed on the Commandant’s presence. There were plenty of fun things they could do together that weren’t full interface. 

Yet fear wound its way around his spark. Some of those things would get the Commandant off, but not Skids. What if the Commandant wasn’t interested in giving Skids any relief? 

Skids remembered what it had been like after eating those aphrodisiacs: his whole body on fire, his thoughts fogged by the desperate hunger for a frag, his valve dripping its fluid everywhere, his entire being crying out for the Commandant’s touch. He never wanted to feel that overwhelming, agonizing thirst ever again. 

“I think I need another night’s rest,” the Commandant continued as he approached the berth. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t give my very personal engineer some very personal attention tonight.” 

Skids smiled hopefully. 

The Commandant sat next to him and slid his hand up Skids’s body, from his waist, over his chest, and up his neck until his hand rested under Skids’s chin. Or perhaps around his throat. Skids wasn’t sure and didn’t care. Most of his attention was focused on keeping his valve panel closed until the Commandant gave permission for him to open it. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” the Commandant whispered. “This might hurt.” 

_That_ was finally enough to tamp down his arousal enough for his mind to gain some semblance of control. Skids flinched. Fear squeezed his spark like a constricting serpent. 

The Commandant had never been interested in hurting him in the berth before tonight. 

Yes, Skids was being punished. But _why_? Surely not for stealing the Commadant’s candy. Not after all this time. Perhaps the Commandant had changed his mind about Skids’s actions during the last week. Perhaps he’d had second thoughts. 

Skids whimpered. “May I...can I ask what I did wrong?” 

The Commandant stroked his belly soothingly. “Oh, Skids, you didn’t do _anything_ wrong. Sometimes life…just hurts.” 

Skids lay against the Commandant’s shoulder, shifting his hips so he could get one leg up on the berth. The position, though awkward, gave him an excuse to spread his legs the way he craved to spread them. The Commandant, despite his ominous words, wrapped his arm around Skids and held him close. 

Skids felt something brush gently against his forehead and realized, belatedly, that it was the Commandant’s lips. That made him shiver for an entirely different reason. He’d grown so accustomed to the mask that he’d all but forgotten the Commandant had a face behind it. 

“Lay down, Skids,” the Commandant urged. 

“When does it hurt?” A moment later Skids hated himself for asking such a foolish question. This was a torture session. His tormentor wasn’t going to give him a chance to brace himself. 

“Would you feel better if I held you?” 

Skids felt that thick fog lying heavy on his brain again. 

Part of his mind—the part that was still Autobot—raced frantically, trying to think of a way out of this situation. Or, if it could not escape, at least a way to mitigate what was to come. _Say yes_ , it urged. _He’ll like it, and having your body in his arms minimizes his options._

Another part, the part that loved the Commandant, was desperately confused. It didn’t know why his Master would choose to expose his faithful engineer to pain. But it definitely liked being held by the Commandant. _Say yes_. 

A third part demanded to know why he had to hurt at _all_ , but the fog was smothering, disorienting, and the Commandant had spoken with a tone of inevitability, and apparently this was the way of things. Yes, that was true. Even before Grindcore, this had been the way of things. Skids remembered the war, and the Decepticons’ anti-personal mines and Prowl’s false flag operations and all the thousand little cruelties that happened seemingly without rhyme or reason. Yes: sometimes life just hurt. The Commandant was right. 

Skids told that third part of his brain to shut up. 

With the other two sides in agreement, and the third choked into silence, Skids spoke easily. “Yes, sir.” 

“Then let me in.” 

Skids sat up so the Commandant could get into the berth. The Decepticon propped the pillows up against the headboard and settled himself in the middle of the bed, half-seated, half-reclining. He opened his legs and patted his lower chest. Eagerly, Skids rolled into position: his hips between the Commandant’s thighs, his back against the Commandant’s chest. The Commandant’s arms folded around him and eased him down. Skids dimmed his optics and wished that he could keep the secure feeling he felt right now. 

“Dim your optics, Skids.” The Commandant’s voice was a gentle song in his audio. “Lie back and breathe deeply and listen to my voice. That’s all you have to do.” Something in the Commandant’s tone shifted ever so slightly. “Just listen to my voice,” he said, but it felt as though he’d run a finger over Skids’s anterior node, even though his valve panel was still closed, and Skids gasped. 

The Commandant didn’t react, as far as Skids could tell with his optics off. “Skids of Nova Cronum. My hardworking engineer. I’m so glad to have you here with me. To think, the day they brought you in, you must have had no idea of how much you’d enjoy it here. You must have been so frightened.” 

Skids nodded slightly. Funny, he’d almost forgotten, but the Commandant was right. He’d never have guessed that he’d find heaven inside the infamous hell of Grindcore. 

He shifted, hooking his lower legs over the Commandant’s calves. 

“That’s quite the position, Skids. I have a lovely view of your valve panel.” 

Skids made a questioning noise that wasn’t quite a word. 

“You know there’s a mirror at the foot of my berth, don’t you, Skids?” 

Skids nodded. He’d installed it. He and the Commandant had both enjoyed having it there. There was just something about seeing himself riding the Commandant’s spike… 

Skids squirmed. He would really like to ride the Commandant’s spike right now. 

_What are you thinking? He’s going to torture you and all you can think is how much you want to fuck him?_

That third voice was very, _very_ irritating. Skids wondered if he could draw down the fog by sheer force of will and muffle it. He did his best. He imagined a white blanket descending and blotting out that voice, erasing its words, dragging it back into a cloud-shrouded history so far away from his present day existence as to be meaningless. 

“You want me to see your panel, don’t you, Skids?” Suddenly it felt as though the Commandant were speaking inside Skids’s head, not just into his audio. “You want me to see what’s under it, _don’t you_?” 

The last two words felt like a physical touch. Skids gasped as his valve panel snapped open. For a moment he thought the Commandant had reached down and opened it, until he realized that the Commandant’s hands were lightly gripping his, and his own hands were folded over his abdomen, grabbing at his own plating so that he wouldn’t give into the temptation to open his panel before he was asked to. 

“Oh, Skids, that’s _beautiful_.” 

Skids relaxed. He felt euphoric, as though he were floating. He wasn’t ashamed of his valve on full display. The fear he felt about what was coming—why, that was absent as well. 

His spark felt odd. He’d never felt this way before. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. It was warm and soft and that should have been nice, if only it hadn’t felt so smothering—like a blanket wrapped around him so tightly that it cut off the air from his intakes. 

That annoying third voice spoke from under its muffling layer of fog, insisting that something strange was happening to him, and if he wasn’t scared, he should be. 


	9. History

Chapter Nine: History 

Overall, the Commandant felt that his little experiment was proceeding quite nicely. Already he’d managed to make Skids’s valve panel snap open all on its own accord. 

He’d done that before, but always with either a bit of manual stimulation, or else the assistance of his aphrodisiac candy. He’d never gotten Skids to pop his panel from the power of his voice alone until today. 

But it _could_ just be that talking and thinking about interface was getting Skids all riled up. Skids was quite the lusty berthmate, after all. Perhaps he hadn’t been as successful as he’d first thought. 

The Commandant frowned. He needed to measure if his power was having an effect or whether this was just Skids thinking about interface after a week of celibacy. 

There was a way to test that. 

If he changed the subject to something deliberately _not_ sexy, and laced his voice with arousal, would Skids still respond this way? 

The Commandant relished the opportunity to find out. 

“It’s been a week, hasn’t it?” the Commandant said softly. “A week since you’ve shown off your pretty valve?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You’re _certain_?” He had to work to keep the edge out of his voice. It came automatically now, when he baited a trap, to let a little of his power trickle into his words. He needed to focus his attention to keep the pitch and tone that stirred Skids’s arousal, instead of a tone that would inflict an uneasy sensation in the listener. “You haven’t been showing it to anyone else while I was in the medbay?” 

“No!” Skids’s optics flashed on. “I’m _your_ engineer. Not anyone else’s.” 

Skids struggled. The Commandant held him in place. “I believe you,” the Commandant said, and Skids stopped struggling. “Dim your optics.” 

Skids obeyed. 

“Poor Skids. I’m sorry I questioned you. It’s just that…well, I’ve read some of the intelligence files about you. From before you came here.” 

“Files?” Skids whispered. 

“Yes. There were many interesting things in those files. All about your set of skills. Your status as an Outlier. Good things, Skids.” 

The Commandant felt Skids’s frame relax further. He began to pump his hips, as though seeking a spike that wasn’t there. The Commandant doubted Skids himself was aware of what his own frame was doing. 

“Things that made me realize what an _excellent_ engineer you’d be. I was so delighted when you decided to co-operate.” Perhaps not the best choice of words. The Commandant boosted the power to his voice. “When you chose to _help_ me, Skids.” 

Skids sighed in utter bliss. 

“My only concern was…oh, how can I put this delicately? Hm….” 

“What?” 

“Well…if you’ll permit me to speak frankly…you’re quite promiscuous, Skids.” 

Skids stiffened, but he couldn’t maintain his alarm. His spark had to be drowning in pleasure, because his hips kept moving, and a second later he was laying limp in the Commandant’s arms, moaning through slightly parted lips, as though interface remained first and foremost in his thoughts. 

“It wasn’t a dealbreaker at the time, because I was looking for someone to help with repairs. I hadn’t foreseen that you would… You know, when you first ate those candies, I thought you’d be _upset_. Angry at me, perhaps, for not keeping an antidote on hand in case of such emergencies. At the very least uncomfortable that I saw you in such a state.” 

“I was uncomfortable,” Skids admitted. “I didn’t know that you’d be…” A low whimper of desire spilled from his lips. “I didn’t know it would be this good.” 

“So good that you came back for more.” 

Skids squirmed. 

“You keep coming back again and again.” 

He was panting now, as though he couldn’t circulate enough cool air to lower the temperature of his overheating frame. 

The Commandant changed his tone from sweet to cutting. “Or are you just addicted to interfacing?” 

Skids cried out in obvious pain. 

Damus didn’t know what to feel: pleased at his success or dismayed by his cruelty. Satisfaction and guilt twisted together into an uncomfortable cocktail deep in his gut. 

Yet he didn’t stop. He doubled down instead, lacing his voice with barbs. “Your file says you’re quite the slut, Skids.” 

The Commandant held tight as Skids began to thrash. For the first time he wondered what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his vocal talents. He would ask Skids to describe it at some later time. Not now. The Commandant was starting to have trouble keeping his focus. 

Because Skids really _had_ been promiscuous. Damus remembered his affairs with Windcharger, with Trailbreaker, with Roller, with Mirage. His _private evaluations_ with Senator Shockwave. Not to mention how often Skids came home early in the morning from a night in town, or worse, the long nights where Damus had to recharge in the common room because Skids was entertaining someone in the hab that they shared. 

If Skids had only paid attention to him, Damus would have done _anything_ for him. But it turned out that Skids would fuck anyone…except Glitch. 

Barbs became a razor edge. “Your file says you fucked your way through the Outliers Academy, for example.” 

Skids gasped, his whole body taut, quivering. Damus could not tell if it was pleasure or pain. 

Damus remembered lying awake on the couch in the common room, listening for noises on the other side of the hab suite door, imagining what Skids was doing and wishing he was doing it with him. But a little freak with claws for hands and a hole for a face—a gremlin who’d yet to learn how not to hurt people with a touch—of course Skids didn’t want him. Even though Skids was game to have a go with anyone else. It had _hurt._

The Commandant took all that old pain and loaded it into his words. Let _Skids_ discover how it had felt to be Glitch. 

“You can see why I’m certain I’m not special. Your history suggests you’ll fuck _anyone_.” 

“No, no!” Skids shouted, twisting in the Commandant’s grasp. “I…I can explain!” Skids drew in a deep, shuddering breath. _“Please!”_

Damus looked down at Skids’s face, twisted in agony, and suddenly hated himself. 

Because here he was, in bed with the mech he’d wanted so badly, who not only was bound and determined to pleasure him in any way he chose, but also was now _in love_ with him. And what was he doing? Thanking Skids for his generosity? Enjoying the pleasure Skids could bring him? No, he was getting off on _torturing_ the mechanism who’d just saved his career, if not his life. 

What was _wrong_ with him? 

It was a good thing Megatron wasn’t religious. To better emulate his hero, Damus of Tarn had given up the faith practiced in the back alleys and bunkhouses of his city of birth. Damus hadn’t even realized the faith had a name until he arrived in Vos and realized that everyone didn’t believe as the people he’d known in Tarn had believed. The Vosian scholars called the Tarnian faith _locism_. Damus hadn’t even realized it counted as a religion. In much of Tarn, it was simply accepted that places, objects, and events had souls just the way people did, and the Tarnians conducted themselves accordingly. 

If, by chance, Damus of Tarn still believed in such a primitive animistic faith, he might be inclined to think that the spirit of a place such as Grindcore would be a vicious, twisted, and ravenous thing indeed. It would see pain and know pleasure. It would feed on the suffering of others. And like the smelting pools outside Tarn’s window, it would never, ever be satiated. 

Should a person spent too long in the presence of such a spirit, breathing in its miasma through his vents, caressing it with his every touch, the locists of Tarn would say that the spirit of the place would get inside a mech and make itself at home. Of course, they were proud to become part of their home city in a spiritual sense. Tarn, for all its rough edges, had many good qualities. Grindcore, on the other hand… 

But locism, like all religion, was nothing more than a tool for control. That’s what Megatron said, so it had to be true. 

Grindcore was not alive and absolutely not waging a battle for Damus’s immortal soul. 

Which meant Damus had no one to blame but _himself_ for this sick and deviant behaviour. 

Yet he couldn’t apologize. Not when he’d already been so soft on Skids. 

But surely he could hear Skids out. That would count as meeting halfway, surely? 

“Explain,” the Commandant commanded. He focused on keeping his voice firm and cold, but without any added enhancement. 

Skids immediately sagged against him. It was as though he’d been running an electrical current through Skids’s arched body and, now that the current was turned off, the arch had collapsed. 

Skids panted, licked his dry lips, and explained. 


	10. Lesser Sentence

Chapter Ten: Lesser Sentence 

The hideous pain vanished, and Skids lay trembling in the Commandant’s arms. 

Skids didn’t know what had just happened. He knew only that the Commandant had not laid a finger on him. Skids had grasped both the Commandant’s hands as his spinal strut had arched in agony for no discernable reason. He’d clung to those hands for dear life while torment wracked his frame. 

His brain insisted on drawing a correlation between the Commandant’s words and his pain. The Commandant had discovered his sexual habits before he’d arrived here at Grindcore. The Commandant disapproved. So Skids had suffered as he’d deserved to suffer. 

Except. 

Skids was guilty of sleeping around, and he’d accept the consequences for that, but Skids couldn’t bear any more of that pain that felt as though he were having his spark suffocated in his chest. He didn’t think he had earned a punishment that severe. 

So why? 

Obviously, because the Commandant didn’t have enough details to make an informed decision. Skids would give them to him, and perhaps the Commandant would see fit to give him a lesser sentence. 

“It’s the superlearner’s curse,” Skids panted. He was still having trouble catching his breath, but he didn’t dare wait. He plowed ahead with his justification, despite the burning in his air intakes. “I like to learn new things. I study them until I master them. Then I’m proficient…and _bored_.” 

Skids took a deep breath. There was no pain. The Commandant gently freed his hands from Skids’s grip, and Skids tensed until the Commandant began to stroke him soothingly. 

Skids looked up at the Commandant. He was so handsome without his mask. “Before I met you, it was like that with lovers, too. Once I knew exactly how to please someone…once I’d experienced everything he had to show me…then I started getting curious what else was out there. What new things I could learn from new people. How good I could become in the berth.” 

_I really am a slut, aren’t I?_

Somehow Skids had never really thought about that before. Maybe because Primalism had nothing to say about how many partners a mech ought to have. Primalism was different from the Clavis Aurea, who were an ascetic bunch, permitting sexual relationships only among committed partners seeking lifelong bonds, or from the Spectralists, who considered “excessive” sexual behaviour to be a distraction from true enlightenment. The Clavis Aurea were expected to be chaste until they found their conjunx endura. The Spectralists, though less restricted, would often take voluntary “fasts” from sexual activity to refocus their auras. Skids had studied a number of Cybertronian faiths and in this regard felt fortunate that he’d been drawn to Primalism. 

Skids wondered what forces had shaped the Commandant’s world view. He certainly didn’t strike Skids as a Spectralist. Clavis Aurea? Could it be? Was that why he wasn’t allowing Glit to heal the scar on his face? 

But he certainly didn’t have any qualms about fragging Skids out of wedlock. 

Perhaps religion wasn’t a factor in the Commandant’s outlook at all. Skids had learned how much the Commandant valued loyalty. Faithfulness. If a mech didn’t have someone to give his fealty to, perhaps the Commandant’s idea of the moral thing to do would be to refuse to share oneself with anyone who fell short of worthiness. Skids would have laughed at such an idea until he’d met the Commandant. 

Now Skids felt ashamed of how freely he’d shared his frame. “I didn’t know,” Skids mumbled. “I didn’t know how important it was to wait for someone worthy.” 

“It’s not easy.” The Commander kept stroking Skids, but his optics grew distant. “It’s not easy. To wait.” 

Skids didn’t know how to respond to that, so he continued with his secondary defense. “And the file’s in error. I didn’t frag _everyone_ at the Outliers Academy.” 

The Commandant’s hand grew still. 

“Though I guess I can only take credit for one.” 

“Explain,” the Commandant whispered, and Skids felt an uncomfortable pressure on his spark. 

“Three mechs I didn’t frag.” Skids found himself gasping as the pressure intensified. “Orion Pax. Not that I didn’t try. But Orion was adamant that it was unprofessional to sleep with people under his direct command.” 

The Commandant cocked his head, and when he spoke again, the weight on Skids’s spark dissolved. “Do you think that’s true? The _unprofessional_ bit?” 

“I hope not, because I don’t want you to stop.” 

The Commandant chuckled. “Go on.” The pressure returned, lesser this time, but still present. 

“Amp. The last mech to join the unit. Made it clear he wasn’t interested in interface or much of anything that usually precedes it. I don’t push my attentions on people who tell me those attentions are unwelcome.” 

“And the last?” 

This time the sensation around Skids’s spark didn’t feel like pressure. This time, when the Commandant spoke, it felt like a thousand tiny needles pricking Skids’s chest. 

“We called him Glitch.” 

The Commandant was silent. 

“Hell of a nickname, but I think he liked it. His power was destroying machinery with a touch.” 

“That’s a good reason not to frag someone, I suppose.” The needles came at Skids’s spark from all directions. 

Skids twitched. “That’s not why.” 

“Really?” Suddenly the needle sensation vanished. Skids was frightened. He really thought the extreme pain from earlier might kill him if it returned. He was still feeling strange sensations in his chest, and he didn’t know why. It felt as though his spark chamber had shrunk. That there wasn’t enough room for his spark, and he was starting to suffocate. 

The Commandant had said tonight might hurt. It was possible he might be _causing_ the pain. 

Skids’s mind raced. He hadn’t noticed the Commandant controlling a device. What was the cause of the pain? What was the mechanism of delivery? Skids would love to think on the matter further, preferably from a safe remove from the pain source. It might be something in the room. Something new that Skids hadn’t noticed. Something that didn’t seem to affect the Commandant…or did it? 

Skids gulped. Brain fog rolled in at the worst possible time. He didn’t have enough mental energy to think about the mystery of the pain right now. The Commandant was waiting for an answer. 

“I never meant to hurt anyone,” Skids stammered, to buy himself time. 

“Oh, Skids.” The Commandant sounded disappointed in him. “Surely you know it’s only the impact that matters. Your intent is meaningless.” 

Skids panicked, suddenly terrified that the smothering sensation would return. “No! I mean, _yes_ , when I was young I made some stupid mistakes. I was out for a good time and I presumed everyone else was too. I broke some hearts, I admit that, but I realized what I was doing wrong and I _fixed it_. I became a better person. I made _certain_ all my partners understood in advance that I wasn’t looking for…for a lifelong commitment or romance or anything like that.” Skids paused, panting for air, gulping huge cool vents into his intakes. “I had no interest in settling down until I met you.” 

The Commandant cocked his head to the other side. 

“I told Glitch, but I don’t think he understood.” Skids gazed up at the Commandant, silently pleading he’d understand better than Glitch had. Skids remembered how the empurata victim’s empty helm had turned every time Skids walked in the room. How that one expressionless optic brightened whenever Skids spoke to him. “He had such a crush on me.” 

“So?” The Commandant’s voice was just as expressionless as Glitch’s optic had been. Skids had no idea what he was feeling, what he was thinking. 

“So I could tell him over and over that there was no future in any intimate relationship we might have, but that wouldn’t matter to him. He was head over heels. Mech would’ve done anything for me. He kept telling me _that_. And I knew…I knew it was irresponsible of me to make a move on him. No matter what I did, I was going to hurt him. All I could think about was what would hurt him _less_.” Skids bit his lip. “He was my _friend_. I turned him down because it would have hurt him so much more if I hadn’t.” 


	11. My Friend

Chapter Eleven: My Friend 

The Commandant felt as though he’d forgotten how to breathe. 

All these years he’d thought Skids’s reason for declining his tentative advances was either his horrific talent or his empurata. He’d never _guessed_ that Skids had actually cared in the slightest about his feelings or his welfare. 

_Dear Primus. Skids cared about me._

But strictly as a friend. Damus—Glitch—had not wanted to be Skids’s _pal_. He had wanted Skids to feel about him the way he’d felt about Skids. He’d wanted Skids to want him. 

Rage still boiled in his fuel tanks, reminding him that Skids was a slut. Skids would have had no problem taking Glitch up on his offer if only Skids had been able to stop fragging other people. Skids wouldn’t have to worry about hurting him if Skids were monogamous with him. Skids’s promiscuity was still to blame. Right? 

But the Commandant’s memories reminded him of what had happened to Skids when he was locked up in solitary. The boredom hurt Skids more than anything else, save perhaps for the Commandant’s whisper slowly dimming his spark. Skids couldn’t change what he was. Damus knew what it was like to change your frame and your vocation and your mannerisms in a desperate attempt to escape the truth at the heart of you. A person could act a role, but they could never escape their own nature. 

The Commandant could keep Skids busy, entertained, and challenged, in the berth and out. Glitch could not have. Damus had learned many things in the centuries since he’d left the Outliers Academy. 

Damus reminded himself that perhaps it was for the best that his first time had been with his Lord Megatron. 

_And now I have Skids after all, exclusive to me. Mine alone._

A twinge of fear pricked at his brain. He had kept Skids busy _so far_. How long could he keep it up? 

Damus shoved that feeling away. He had Skids in his lap, reeling from the torture, ready to talk. He’d never have a better time to get answers. 

“So you weren’t repelled by this mech’s empurata?” Damus asked. It felt strange to speak about himself in third person. “No mouth, to suck your spike with?” 

“Sir, I would never dare to even presume that you would stoop to suck my spike, and I still have no interest in other lovers.” Skids’s optics flickered. 

“So you don’t miss oral pleasure?” Damus couldn’t quite believe that. 

“I like it, sir, but I don’t _need_ it. Not when I have you.” 

“Didn’t this mech’s talent put you off, then? Could he break people the way he broke machinery?” 

“Yes, he could,” Skids admitted. “Though…I mean, that’s kind of interesting, isn’t it? Not just how his talent worked, but how you’d have interface if one of the partners couldn’t use his hands. He never seemed to have a problem with other people touching him.” 

The Commandant couldn’t help but ask. “How would you have done it? Fragged him, I mean.” 

Skids lowered his optics. “Do you really want to hear about how I’d interface with someone else?” 

He had a point. Damus would not have wanted to hear this at all were it about anyone save his former self. 

But he couldn’t resist whispering, “Speak.” He trailed his index finger down the length of Skids’s abdomen. He had no intention of touching Skids’s valve—not yet—but the mere suggestion that he might would rev Skids up. 

Skids drew in a shuddering breath. “The easiest way would be to ground his hands. Give him a bar or something to hold onto.” 

“On all fours, then? On his knees in the berth? Gripping the headboard, perhaps?” 

Skids gasped. The Commandant heard his fans spooling up in his chest again. Yes, Skids was getting hot. 

The Commandant hummed softly, barely audibly, seeking the frequency and the tone he wanted. 

“Not his first time,” Skids said. “I think he’d feel better if he could see what was happening the first time. On his back, maybe. Hands over his head. Fingers wrapped around a long bar.” 

The Commandant imagined how that would have felt. Glitch would have been absolutely overwhelmed. His talent would have chained his hands to that bar as surely as actual restraints. He’d have been at Skids’s mercy. 

That was no longer the natural order of things. It was Skids’s turn to be at his mercy now. He made a note to cuff Skids’s hands to the headboard one of these nights. 

“Of course if you wanted to get really exotic…” Skids broke off, panting. 

“Yes?” the Commandant trilled. Skids’s optics flickered and his mouth gaped wide, and the Commandant knew he’d hit the right frequency at last. He hummed a little louder as Skids continued. 

“Get a…a sling or something. On a pulley.” Skids shifted, as though he couldn’t quite get comfortable. “Me on my back. Him in the sling overtop of me. Lining up position and then…” Skids arched his back, thrusting his hips at nothing. “Lower him just a little. Until my spike slid into his valve. I’d be inside him but otherwise we wouldn’t be touching at all.” 

Skids’s dirty mind exceeded the Commandant’s wildest dreams. “Imagine.” The Commandant was imagining it himself, and his mouth was starting to water. He licked his lips, aware that he didn’t have his mask to hide his face. “Such an intimate connection, but the rest of your body suffering complete sensory deprivation.” He realized, belatedly, that his own arousal had bled into his voice. 

That personal connection apparently increased the effect of his voice exponentially. Skids cried out with pleasure, moving his hips more violently. He looked up at the Commandant and whimpered. “Sir, what’s happening to me?” 

The Commandant thought about Skids cuffed to the berth while he sat across the room, doing this with his voice. Skids overloading over and over again while begging for the Commandant to touch him… 

…oh, and he could face the wall, too. Skids climaxing while pleading for the Commandant even just to _look_ at him. 

He’d be generous, of course. Part of the fun would be in watching Skids get utterly wrecked without ever being touched. 

First, though, he had to prove he could overload Skids with his voice alone. 

“Why, you’re wriggling around quite a bit,” the Commandant replied, infusing his voice with that special tone and thinking about his own arousal. “You look somewhat uncomfortable.” And it was delicious, to have Skids at his mercy at last. Wanting Damus the way Damus wanted him. 

Skids bit his lower lip and nodded. He looked really quite adorable. 

“Has talking about interface gotten you this revved up?” 

“Yes,” Skids whispered. 

“My, my. We ought to do something about that sex addiction of yours, shouldn’t we? Give you some _relief_?” 

“No!” Skids protested, tearing out of the Commandant’s arms as he sat up. Before the Commandant could react, Skids looked back over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir. I want to frag you more…” His voice broke. “More than anything. But there’s something wrong with me. With my chest. At first it hurt but now…” He clenched his fists. “Now I’m so hot I can hardly bring myself to care that I thought I was going to die from the pain.” Skids moaned, low and sad. “My Lord, I’m scared.” 

That admission of fear wrung the Commandant’s spark. It threatened to snuff out the arousal that was building in the Decepticon’s system, and it stabbed him in a place he thought he’d numbed long ago. With all he’d done since becoming Commandant of Grindcore, it seemed as though he still possessed the capacity to be sickened by himself. 

“Skids,” the Commandant murmured. “Do you trust me?” 


	12. Belong

Chapter Twelve: Belong 

It was not wise for Skids to trust the Commandant. 

Funny thing about pain and terror. They had driven away the fog that had been clouding Skids’s mind so often as of late. For the first time in a long time, Skids was thinking clearly. 

And his thoughts had taken a most disturbing turn. 

His body was on the verge of overheating. He was hornier than he’d been in his entire life. Except for one previous occasion. The time when he’d accidentally eaten the Commandant’s aphrodisiacs. 

He’d thought it had been the candies that had done it. Now, though, he was beginning to wonder. He hadn’t eaten anything unusual today, but he was almost as desperate for interface. 

Maybe the fuel he’d shared with the Commandant had been spiked with the same ingredients as those candies. 

But that wouldn’t explain the crushing pain that had felt like a heel slamming down on his spark. 

Skids was starting to suspect that whatever had hurt him might also be the cause of this strange arousal. If that was the case, then maybe the Commandant had used it on him on previous occasions. And if _that_ were true, then maybe he hadn’t seduced the Commandant because he was a dirty little slut and a traitor after all. Maybe he’d been _coerced_ into doing it. Maybe it had been whatever that weapon was, amping up his arousal and fogging his mind. 

If he was a victim instead of an instigator, then he wasn’t beyond redemption for his sins. 

If he was being attacked by outside forces, he could fight back. 

Skids bit his tongue, inside his mouth where the Commandant couldn’t see. A little pain helped him to focus. 

What would a good Autobot do? 

_Learn all he could._

_Get the information to the Autobots._

_Stay alive until then._

He was in an excellent position for an undercover agent. He’d refused to escape when he had the chance. The Grindcore staff had obeyed his orders without question. The Commandant trusted him. He was perfectly situated to learn Decepticon secrets and take them with him when he left. At this point, he could probably just walk out the front gate whenever he wanted, as long as the Commandant was busy elsewhere. 

He couldn’t let the Commandant know about his suspicions. He had to play along like a good little slave under his Master’s thrall. He forced himself to lay back, resting his head on the Commandant’s chest again. 

He expected to feel repulsed. Dirty. 

He felt a thrill instead. 

_Shareware_ , a voice in his head whispered, but Skids shoved it aside. Jazz, Mirage, even Windcharger had seduced Decepticons to get information out of them. Prowl would excuse him for fragging the Commandant for the good of the Cause. 

And Skids already knew he would enjoy it. Morality aside, the mech’s spike was a delight. 

“Yes, sir,” Skids whispered, playing the part of the dutiful little servant. 

“I’ve done something very cruel to you,” the Commandant whispered. 

Skids felt a sensation as though a part of his mind had just sharpened. It was an exciting, thrilling and yet cold sensation. Skids had an edge against his adversary. The Commandant was about to talk. 

The Autobot part of Skids’s mind felt pleased. 

The Decepticon part felt guilty. He was going to hurt his Master. 

_Your Master had no qualms about hurting you_ , the Autobot part reminded him. _Remember your “Decepticon Adjutant” persona is only a role._

“I wanted to show you a very special kind of pleasure,” the Commandant said. Then the timbre of his voice changed in a way that Skids could not describe. “ _This kind_ ,” the Commandant whispered, and something about the tone of his words sent a ripple of heat down Skids’s spine, ending with a zing right in Skids’s valve. 

“Ah,” Skids gasped. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” the Commandant purred. “You might be surprised just _how_ good I can make you feel.” 

Skids watched in the mirror as his valve lips glistened with moisture. They were fully engorged, so large they’d furled back naturally, allowing Skids—and the Commandant—a peek at the red lining inside his valve. His anterior node was a swollen golden button at the peak of his valve. 

Primus help him, but he wanted the Commandant inside him. 

Or did he? There was something else wrong. Something he felt that he should be seeing. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

The Commandant knew so very much about him. So very much about so very many things. But nobody was omniscient. The Commandant wasn’t God. 

There was no God. 

“It’s a trick I’m learning,” the Commandant murmured. “You see, I’m an Outlier too.” 

Skids trembled. He wasn’t sure if it was arousal or fear. 

There was no external weapon after all. This sensation…this ability…it was part of the Commandant’s natural state of being. The Commandant could arouse and seduce with his voice alone. 

Skids wracked his brain, trying to remember if any of Shockwave’s notes had ever mentioned a mech with sonic ability. Thundercracker, of course, but Thundercracker’s sonics were a cudgel, a crude destructive force. The Commandant’s talent was far more subtle. No, he couldn’t remember anyone with a gift like this. Surely he’d remember a mech who could charm you with his voice. 

Skids wished he knew the Commandant’s true name. 

“Unfortunately…” 

Skids’s emotional state slid sideways. Desire, yes, but also _want_. A ravenous, achingly empty pit of wanting. It seemed to echo inside his very spark. 

“I’m not very good at it,” the Commandant admitted. “Not _yet_.” 

“None of us are at first,” Skids replied, licking suddenly dry lips. “That’s why Shockwave started the Outliers Academy. We all need to practice.” 

Heat rose up in his frame. Right now, he wanted to practice fragging a lot more than learning. 

“I wish I could have been there with you.” The Commandant tenderly stroked Skids’s cheek. “We would have had such fun.” 

Skids doubted the wisdom of reminding the Commandant how promiscuous he’d been during his Academy days. No, the Commandant wouldn’t have liked that. 

Something hovered in the very back of Skids’s consciousness – a flicker of insight, a terrible epiphany… It dangled at the edge of his knowledge, just a hand’s length out of reach. 

“Such _fun_.” The Commandant’s voice slid over Skids’s anterior node, tickled inside his valve. Whatever revelation he thought he’d glimpsed vanished, washed away by a wave of lust. 

“But Skids,” the Commandant continued, “have you ever heard that old saying about the line between pleasure and pain being very thin indeed?” 

Skids nodded, gasping. It was getting hard to think. He couldn’t struggle towards the epiphany when it took all his focus to stay where he was. Lust caught him in its teeth, threatening to drag him down into its flames and burn away all his rationality. 

Did Jazz or Mirage ever have this problem? Did their desires ever overwhelm their professionalism? 

Somehow, Skids thought not. 

Maybe he _was_ shareware after all. 

“The problem…” The Commandant’s voice felt like a silken touch on his thighs, his valve lips, his…oh, yes. Inside. “The problem is that I can just as easily cause pain this way.” The Commandant took Skids’s hands in his own, weaving his fingers through Skids’s. “That’s not very nice of me, is it, Skids? To use you as a test subject for my experiment?” 

“So you’re saying that when you…” No, he couldn’t suggest that his Master might make a mistake. “That unsatisfactory results don’t manifest as _nothing_. They manifest as….” 

“Agony,” the Commandant admitted. “It’s all in how my words resonate with your spark.” 

Skids felt his insides grow cold. 

That first night…that could not have been the Commandant’s talent after all. The Commandant had confessed that he was still learning to use his talent. If he’d tried to use it that first night, he would have lost his precision, as he had today. It would have hurt. 

Skids had felt no pain, then. No pain save his own overheating frame. 

_I really am a sex addict._ Skids felt shame. _I really did seduce him first._

_I really don’t belong with the Autobots. I belong here, fucking my Decepticon master._

“Then why did you do it?” Skids took a deep breath. “When you said I hadn’t done anything wrong?” 

“Because if I can get it _right…_ ” The Commandant purred into Skids’s audio. “Then you should feel a kind of pleasure unlike anything anyone else could ever give you.” 

“So you didn’t mean to hurt me,” Skids said, and damn his own spark, but he felt happy. He should feel completely revolted by himself. Instead, all he could feel was joy that his Lord had not wanted to inflict pain on him. 

“No,” the Commandant murmured. “No, I wanted to give you a very special reward for your loyalty.” His words felt like fingers caressing Skids’s spark. 

Skids felt that yawning abyss opening beneath him again. The thick fog billowed at the edge of his consciousness. His hands tightened on the Commandant’s. His body temperature spiked. His spinal strut arched. 

The Commandant’s words sent Skids’s valve rippling. “A very special reward for my _very personal_ engineer.” 

Skids couldn’t help it. 

He overloaded. He stared at himself in the mirror, watching his valve clenching on nothing while his body spasmed in pleasure. 

_This is where you belong._

The fog rolled in. 

The ground gave way beneath Skids’s sense of self. 

Once again, he found himself falling into darkness. This time, it felt like coming home. 


End file.
